


Blue like Blue

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, FBI Agent Clarke Griffin, Professor Bellamy, Soulmates Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 23:47:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13962696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: Prompt: Bellarke Soulmates AU where the world is black and white until you see your soulmate and wait WHAT I can see color now…except I’m the FBI Agent assigned to monitor you through your computer.





	Blue like Blue

Clarke didn’t stop at the front desk, and the receptionists’ nervous looks weren’t lost on her as she brushed by them. The cubicles she stalked past were pretty typical of offices across the country, except in order to push paper in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, you needed an advanced degree or two. Plus, Clarke was pretty sure she’d get fired from any line of work if she stormed into her superior’s office the way she was about to.

_Good thing Uncle Sam likes me._

She rapped on the door as a matter of protocol, opening it before the last knock faded. The man behind the desk looked up at her and checked his watch, smiling slightly to himself.

“Fourteen minutes sooner than I expected,” he said dryly, reaching a foot under his desk to kick at the leg of the chair across from him. “Want to sit?”

“What I want,” Clarke crossed the room and her arms, “Is to know why you’ve tagged me for Network Investigations.”

But she sat anyways.

She absently wondered if propping her feet up on the desk, nudging aside the engraved nameplate that read ‘ _Marcus Kane, Associate Deputy Director’_ , would effectively communicate how little she cared for her boss’ reorganization strategy.

Marcus drummed his fingers on the desk. “I knew you wouldn’t be pleased.”

“That’s an understatement.”

He lifted his hands as he rephrased himself, “I had a feeling you’d terrify my analysts by stalking through this place like someone had shot your dog.”

“You might as well have shot my dog; you’re pulling me off the field.”

“It’s temporary.”

“Tell that to Career Fido. He’s bleeding out, just over there,” Clarke pointed to a corner of the office, and Marcus made a face.

“It’s only for a couple of weeks” he said soothingly, “We’re vetting the next class for Quantico and we need to—”

“Then get one of them to do it,” Clarke interrupted him, gesturing through the window screens to the cubicles outside of Kane’s office.

“They have enough going on.”

_What, and I don’t??_

Clarke shook her head. “Tell me what this is actually about, Kane.”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she saw it: that shrewdness that had propelled him through the ranks of the FBI. Right now, he was weighing the pros and cons of telling her the real reason she’d been relegated from field operative to basement IT rat. He sighed finally, and leaned back in his chair.

“You need a break.”

Clarke frowned. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say to your top performing agent.”

“It is when I’m worried she’s going to hurt herself.”

_Oh._

Understanding dawned, and Clarke looked down quickly. “Kane, if you’re worried about the Vidovic Case...I took the time off. I went out to California, blew off some steam, just like you and the Director wanted me too. I’m good now.”

The man was quiet for a moment. “Are you?”

Clarke ran a hand through her hair, then pointed to a stack of case files behind him. “That pile is almost a dozen cases taller since I got back, and it’s only been two months.”

“And that’s supposed to reassure me?”

“That I’m in the game and I’m good? Yeah, it is.”

“Clarke,” the man leaned over his desk, crossing his hands and looking earnestly at her, “What it actually tells me is that you’re still fighting something. And you’re using my cases to try to beat it.”

She held her tongue. “You think I’m burying myself in my work?”

“I think that’s exactly what you’re doing. Each time you give me another one of these,” Marcus reached behind him to tap the files Clarke had pointed to, “and it doesn’t fix what’s going on in your head, you will get more and more desperate to fix it. And you’ll do it with my cases, my agents, my analysts. Because you’re good at what you do, you’ll get away with it for a while. But then you won’t, and it’s going to cost me, and I can’t take that risk.”

Clarke was on her feet in a moment, her eyes flashing. “I am not compromised because a girl died on a case, Kane.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then he shook his head. “No, you’re not. It’s a hard line of work, and we lose people. You’re compromised because you saw yourself in that girl, and when you tried to save her father, you were trying to save yours. And now that they’re both dead, you blame yourself instead of the gunman.”

The office was silent.

Clarke shifted on her feet before sinking down to the chair. Marcus was right, of course he was, but it still stung to have it laid out so harshly. She lifted her hands to her face, rubbing her eyes wearily. “So, what, you stick me behind a computer until you think I’m fixed enough to go back in the field?”

“Fixed implies broken,” Marcus said gently, and she looked up to see his eyes were understanding. “You’re not broken, Clarke. Like you said, you’re one of my best. I’m just protecting my investments.”

She smiled half-heartedly. “ _The_ best, actually. I think that’s what I said.”

Marcus laughed shortly. “Never a shortage of confidence from you. You good?”

Clarke blew out a breath, nodding slowly. “I’m resigned.”

“I’ll take it. Give Reyes my regards.”

She’d forgotten Raven was in Tech now: the youngest director of Operational Technology in the Bureau’s history, and for good reason. Clarke hadn’t seen much of her since a bullet in her spine had put her out of commission, but now it looked like she’d be reporting to her.  

_That’s not half-bad for a silver lining._

“Will do,” she said, rising. She wasn’t defeated, per se, but she definitely wasn’t triumphant. She felt the analysts’ amusement as she walked out of the office, but she kept her shoulders straight.

_Gloat all you want; I’m the one that’s doing your job for you._

Okay, so maybe that was a little dramatic. But there was always a rivalry between the analysts and the agents, and she was practically contractually obligated to condescend to them. Except now she was technically one of them.

She punched in her code for access to the elevator, repressing a shudder as she hit the button for the basement.

_Where else would they have IT?_

The elevator dinged, and she stepped off on sublevel 2. The room was large, no cubicles dividing the desks, and programmers typing aggressively onto their machines. Each desk had a number of screens on it, and the clatter of keyboards leading to a flurry of text springing to life on the dark screens. Nobody looked up when she entered, and Clarke walked over to the desk closest to her; the man sitting behind it was looking between three monitors and a tablet (because four monitors would be too many?), and Clarke drummed her fingers on the top of the computer. “Raven Reyes?”

“Agent Griffin,” the man did a double take, then swallowed, pointing behind her, “She’s up in her nest.”

_Of course she named her desk._

Clarke nodded her thanks and she turned, only to find that ‘desk’ was a massive understatement. At the end of the room, two staircases led up to a loft, enclosed entirely in glass walls. The loft has digital screens on every visible surface, some workbenches spread throughout it, and one stool in the very center of it. On top of it, perched a very formidable, very impressive, very focused Raven Reyes.

Clarke took the stairs by twos and leaned against the door frame when she reached the top of them, watching for a second. Raven was holding a keyboard in one hand, typing with the other, and watching the screens react accordingly. “Got a desk for me, boss?”

Raven looked up sharply, and then a smile slid over her face. “Kane said you’d be coming down my way, but I told him I wouldn’t believe it till you were here.” She hit the same button a couple of times in quick succession, closing down whatever she was working on. “Welcome to my kingdom.”

“I heard it was your nest.”

“This is my nest,” Raven set the keyboard on her lap, and gestured around her, before tilting her head towards the windowed wall that overlooked the rest of the floor, “that’s my kingdom.”

“Ah,” Clarke shook her head at her friend’s antics, “Any room for a humble villein?”

Raven snorted. “In all the years I’ve known you, I would never call you humble.”

“Fair enough. So, where are you putting me, and what’ve you got for me?”

Raven nodded at one of the tables, with a bunch of papers spread on top of it. “The yellow one’s for you.”

Clarke’s breath caught.

It wasn’t often that it happened, the casual reminder that by their late 20s, most of her peers had found their soulmate and she hadn’t. And after so many years of seeing the world in black and white, Clarke could get by just fine. Most things were vaguely gray, but they did come in different tones, so usually she could fake it. Unless lighter tones were involved, and the contrast wasn’t as high, in which case Clarke was pretty much guessing. Like with yellow and white.

Clarke pursed her lips; knowing Raven didn’t mean anything by it. “And how is Luna?” she asked lightly, crossing over to the desk, smiling at her friend.

“She’s good. She...” Raven’s voice trailed off when she realized the connection between seeing color and her own relationship. “Damn. Sorry. I used to hate when people would do that to me. Um, it’s the page two from the left, first row.”

Clarke counted and picked up the paper, grateful Raven had understood. Her eyebrows raised as she read over the list on it, looking back up at Raven. “KAs?”

“Known associates, yep. One of the new recruits has a...” Raven trailed off as she searched for words, “rather colorful history. Nothing illegal, nothing dangerous, just impassioned. Activism, never violent, just emphatic. She’s really promising, strong in all the ways that matter, but the powers that be need her more thoroughly vetted.”

_And just like that, I’m demoted to recon._

Clarke suppressed a sigh, going back to the list. “Who’s the applicant?”

“One Octavia Blake. Do you know her?”

The name sounded familiar, but Clarke couldn’t place it; she shook her head. “Should I?”

Raven shrugged, typing a few things into the keyboard before she answered. “Your name was in her application. No explanation, no context, nothing. Just: Please state your reason for wanting to join the FBI? Clarke Griffin. Here’s the headshot they took during the interview.”

At face popped up on the screen, and Clarke tilted her head at the screen. “She looks familiar…” She snapped her fingers. “Got it. She was my hostage from the Arkadia Bank robbery.”

It was her first time in the field, a couple of amateurs short on cash held up a bank out in Virginia. The FBI had the whole building cordoned off, but the robbers said they had a couple dozen hostages—mostly women and children—and they wanted $5 million in cash. Clarke’s team was on standby when they received word that the hostage negotiator had been called into DC for a bomb threat; they weren’t getting any backup. With no visibility inside the building, no way of helping their hostages, and no way of a negotiator until the DC crisis was averted, Clarke had stripped off her vest and badge, left her gun on the hood of the car, and walked into the bank.

She sat outside the door to the main vault for three hours, trying to convince them to trade a federal agent for their hostages. They’d relented, but kept one girl behind, to keep Clarke from trying anything. So Clarke had kept up a steady stream of dialog until the man closest to her lowered the gun from the girl’s head, and then kept at it for another ninety minutes; at which point he forgot that the chatty blonde was a federal agent, and she wrestled the gun from him.

Raven closed the image. “Small world.”

_No kidding._

“I actually ran into her a couple months ago; I wonder if that’s what kick started her application. I was running surveillance for the Vidovic Case, tapping a conversation at some coffee shop. I was pretty distracted with the case, and was trying to keep a semi-low profile, but this girl just kept chatting away. I think she even introduced me to her brother?” Clarke scanned the list, nodding when she found the name. “Yeah, Bellamy. I couldn’t figure out why she was talking to me, but had to keep being polite and not raise attention, so I could keep the wire-tap going...”

Clarke trailed off, noticing that she no longer had an audience. Raven was typing rapidly, frowning at a small box on the screen. She realized Clarke had grown quiet, glanced up and made a face. “Sorry.”

“No worries; you’re a busy woman.”

Raven smiled, grateful to be understood, and went back to her computer. “Okay, so you’ve got your list. First desk on your right once you’re down these stairs, guy named Monty. He’ll kick a newbie off a computer so you can have one. Run through that list, see what you can see, and get back to me in three weeks.”

Clarke looked back at the list. “This is probably a dumb question—”

“If you’re waiting for me to say there’s no such thing, you don’t know me very well.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. ”More like I know it’s a dumb question, but can’t decide if it’s worth asking. What am I looking for?”

Raven looked up from the computer. “Tell me if she’s worth it. We know she’s smart and strong and driven. But, if you were walking into a situation blind, if the entire case hinged on a split-second decision, if someone had to take a shot through you—would you trust Octavia Blake to be your eyes, your decision maker, your gun?” The screen beeped again, and Raven went back to it. “That’s your job.”

_Which makes it both easier and harder._

Easier, because it was a gut feeling; harder, because it meant there wasn’t some tell she was looking for.

Clarke went down the stairs and found Raven’s Monty. He, in turn, found a desk for her, checked that security was set up, and left her in peace. Clarke propped the list up next to the computer, staring at the names, before rolling her shoulders a couple of times and setting her fingers over the keys.

“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen…” she muttered aloud, proud of herself for remembering the quote, and started typing.

About an hour later, she was all set up.

Her two monitors divided neatly into eight sections—one for each of her seven names on the list and one for notes.  She leaned in to study the screens. Seven apartments. Some of the feeds she’d pulled from video game consoles, some were from desktops, and one was from the video security camera. No matter their origin, she had eyes on the homes of all of Octavia’s known associates. Or she would, once they got home.

_In the meantime…_

Credit reports, college transcripts, job applications, failed foodie blogs, flights, social media profiles; she pulled it all.

Then she blinked and it was 6pm; locks turned with keys and her KAs came home.

Harper fed her golden retriever, played fetch with him for a good thirty minutes, before queuing up an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Jasper messed around in the incognito browser for a while before joining some team video game. Indra helped her daughter with her homework and then spent an hour with a punching bag, before starting to cook dinner. Niylah stood on her head for twenty minutes then painstakingly made some pour over coffee. Ilian spent a lot of time on his terrace, taking care of a veritable farm of plants. Lincoln came home long enough to check the Crossfit schedule on his pc, then picked up a gym bag and left again.  Normal, everyday things. Activity increased as the evening went on; dinner was served, friends were texted, slippers slid into.

At around 10pm, everything started winding down. Lincoln made himself a protein shake, Harper let her dog out one more time—Clarke checked, its name was Wade, and you could follow him on Instagram—and Indra read a chapter out of three different NYC Times Bestsellers.

_You don’t make a bad fly on the wall, Griffin._

She had pretty solid profiles of all the known associates, and she’d been studying their persons since they got home. An impressive crew of people, actually; from her boss, to her boyfriend, to her friends from college, Octavia kept good company. Clarke knew the way Harper took her coffee, the dealer who sold Jasper ‘herbs’, the meditation temple where Niylah taught, and the flowers Lincoln bought Octavia each month.   

_Of course, you make a better wolf in sheep’s clothing, but that’s Marcus’ loss._

She pushed back from the desk, rubbing her eyes. The lab was quiet—to be fair, it had never been loud—and most of Raven’s department had gone home.

At times like these, she wished she were less of a perfectionist; maybe then she could go home. But no, she had to wait for the door to open in the studio loft, because Octavia’s brother hadn’t come home yet, and she wasn’t about to leave before she had complete profiles.

_Maybe it’s a crazy night out on the town._

She doubted it.

The man taught History courses at one of the top Humanities programs in the country; though she barely remembered meeting him the first time, he seemed like a pretty upstanding guy. Not exactly the type to go out on a school night to...well, to do anything, really.

But at this point, she was contemplating just setting up motion sensors on the camera to notify her if/when he came home, and taking a cat nap. Her eyelids felt heavy, and Clarke glared at the screen. She was checking the address—maybe she’d somehow gotten it wrong—when a key turned in the lock and he walked into the room.

Clarke blinked lazily at the screen.

_Wow, Griffin, you really must've been focused at the coffee shop._

Because Bellamy Blake was not hard to look at. At all.

He pulled his messenger bag, brimming with papers, over his head, setting it beside the door and kicking out of his loafers.

_Of course he wears loafers._

What else to match the hipster glasses and cardigan? The man looked exactly like everyone hoped a professor would look. Tall, dark, handsome, but intelligent to boot. Like he casually had half of Shakespeare’s sonnets memorized and could give you a tweed blazer if you were cold. The Neville Longbottom effect, really.

Clarke leaned forward as Bellamy made his way over to the computer, running a hand through his hair—his very thick, very curly, very pretty, hair— as he sat down.

_Alright, Professor Blake, what’re you up to tonight?_

Forty minutes later, Clarke rubbed her temples, staring in disbelief at the computer screen. She’d thought the lack of social media presence had been a fluke, that there had to be a pseudonym or something under which she could find all his dirty laundry...yet nothing. The man had turned on the computer, googled the Siege of Alesia and had sunk into a wikipedia spiral; he was now reading about the ancestry of Caroline of Ansbach with genuine enthusiasm, and showing no signs of fatigue. He’d taken several divergent paths along the way, pulling up transcripts of different documents, not all of them in English, reading through them hungrily, before going back to wikipedia to find something else to satiate his curiosity. His eyes lit up as he found an entry in the Encyclopædia Britannica, Eleventh Edition, detailing the bribes and imperial decrees that John George IV found himself swimming in when he unknowingly began an affair with his illegitimate daughter; Clarke couldn’t stop the slight smile from lifting the corners of her mouth.

_Nerd._

She meant it as a compliment; everyone was a nerd about something. But it was rare to see someone so enraptured with the thing they loved, embracing as much of it as they could, just delving into it, like Bellamy was doing. It was as refreshing as it was endearing.

With a slight shake of her head, Clarke powered off the computers for the night. While following along as Bellamy pummelled through literal centuries of British history was hardly fascinating, it was soporific. She stood, stretching, her arms and legs getting used to a range of motion after so many hours of inactivity. She pulled her jacket off the back of the chair, shrugging into it, and trudging towards the elevator. Somehow she made it through the drive home and through her living room, kicking out of her shoes once she had already face planted on her bed.

_Who needs nyquil when you can stare at monitors for thirteen hours, snoop on the lives of strangers, and work yourself into an exhaustion with no physical exertion?_

She slept.

And woke 4 hours later, pulse fast and heart pounding from a nightmare. They’d gotten worse since the Vidovic Case. Clarke rolled out of bed anyways, getting dressed in the dark, slipping into running shorts and a sweatshirt. She was awake anyways, and if she was going to sit still all day, she needed to do something in lieu of physical activity. She set out at a steady pace, feet pounding the pavement as she ran from the memories, the shadows, the echoes.

_Nobody talks about this part of being an agent._

Clarke drew to a stop when she got to the top of a hill. The city was spread below her and she crouched over, resting her hands on her knees and waiting for her breathing to steady.

The sun was rising.

She straightened, bracing her hands on her neck, her eyes closing to the warmth of it. The sun washed over her and she drew a deep breath, her lungs filling with the scent of the morning. She squinted, looking out of her city.

Yellow.

The buildings were warm with it, glowing in the direct sunlight, shining with the brightness of an early and unhindered sun.

Blue.

The sky was illuminated by the brightness of the sun, and the hue that spread across the horizon was so much deeper than she’d ever imagined it being.

Green.

The streets were lined with trees, bursting with foliage and life. Each green was different, the trees, the weeds peeking through the sidewalk, the grass at the soccer field on the high school campus.

The sun rose higher, and Clarke turned, her jaw unhinged. The world spread out before her, and it was in living color.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, mind whirring.  

_My soulmate._

The person her heart recognized. The one who would understand her like no one else, with whom she aligned so perfectly. Her person.

If only she knew who it was.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends! Pascale sent me this prompt, and I'm having some fun with it. I've never done soul mates, nor really angst (instant chemistry and awkward flirting and history jokes are much more my speed, clearly), but it's cool to write these two a different way. The next chap will be the coffee date of coffee dates, as Clarke tries to narrow down who her soulmate could possibly be, and then we'll end with some good pining. If I can get my act together and write this, that is, my track record vs. my WIPs is not the strongest at the moment. Anyways, thanks for reading ♥


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